


Merry Christmas, Buckaroo!

by stew (julie)



Category: The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across The 8th Dimension (1984)
Genre: Christmas, First Meetings, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1990-03-01
Updated: 1990-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22613944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/stew
Summary: Another ‘origin’ story… Buckaroo meets an intriguing cowboy one night when he accidentally finds himself at the Blue Oyster Bar.
Relationships: Buckaroo Banzai/Rawhide





	Merry Christmas, Buckaroo!

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** Well, this is a piece of frippery… so much so that I first published it as “A Trash Slash Tale by John Anonymous Actually”. Usually I have the courage of my convictions! Which I will prove by owning up to it and publishing it now. I promised myself that all my _Buckaroo Banzai_ fic would be archived in AO3, and Buckaroo and Rawhide expect me to keep my promises. 
> 
> **First published:** in the zine Beyond Antares R-Rated #8 in March 1990.

# Merry Christmas, Buckaroo! 

♦

### Saturday, December 25, 1971 

I did not write in my Journal yesterday, self-discipline having flown out the window. It is Christmas. I have found a best friend who takes my notions of an Institute and breathes life into them; who is kind and caring and intelligent; who became my lover two nights ago. Christmas Eve I spent reeling, wondering if my world would ever be the same again. But I didn’t write it down, because I couldn’t work out quite what I thought about it all, at least not enough to put in writing. For that matter, I never have written about the few sexual encounters in my past, for the simple reason that they were so unimportant. This time, everything – every touch, every look, every thought, every communication – seems to grow in meaning exponentially. But I get lost in melodramatic exaggerations. The facts are important: the differences in this so-new relationship; the astounding possibilities of reality for my pipe-dreams. 

Previous encounters have been so uninvolving, so much a matter of a little relief, a little fun, and not much else. Yet this… 

The facts, Buckaroo, are called for. (Like the fact that he turned up this morning, suitcase in hand and his Stetson trussed up in red ribbon like the Christmas present he is…) Who cares for the ravings of a moonstruck man? One day of swooning around with a grin on my face and an empty head is enough! 

It was December 23rd. I was lonely and horny. While I was not brought up to any one religion, the excitement of a festival such as Christmas, which is a holiday for almost every person in America whether they believe in the Christian God or not, always infected me with joy. I had a few friends in this teeming city of New York, but no close ones to share my joy or horniness with. So I slipped out, leaving a guilty note for Hikita-san, and I went in search of love. 

All I had wanted to find was some young woman who was maybe as lonely and horny as me to share the night with. It hadn’t seemed such an impossible thing to look for. As it was, the ones who looked promising simply smiled back at me and kept walking. Others, I felt too uncomfortable about to approach. After maybe two hours of walking the streets and haunting the night-clubs, with my shoes and coat wet through with snow, I ran smack into a tall, thin man in a fancy mink coat and heavy gold jewelry. 

“Looking for something?” he was kind enough to ask once we’d sorted out our respective limbs. 

“Yes,” I replied, both weariness and hesitation in my voice. I guessed that he guessed exactly what I was wanting.

“Well, it’s your lucky night. Look at these lovely ladies of mine… Take your pick! A special Christmas price is available on application.” 

I looked towards the ladies, who were lovely indeed though unfortunately somewhat under-dressed for the weather. My feelings were mixed. While I wouldn’t mind paying for sex where I thought it necessary, tonight I had been hoping for something a little more reciprocal. Someone who wanted me for myself rather than my money, hopeful romantic that I am. Anyhow, I had no idea how much these services cost and feared that I simply didn’t have the cash, even with the supposed Christmas discount. After all, they didn’t look like the kind of people who took American Express. Apart from which, the itemized account would be difficult to explain to Hikita-san. 

The man must have seen the hesitation in my eyes. “Not quite what you were looking for tonight?” 

“No, not quite.” I smiled at him, a little rueful, a lot foolish. 

He was nodding wisely. “New in town? Need some directions?” 

“Please,” I said gratefully. 

“Two blocks down, one and a half blocks left. The Blue Oyster Bar. You can’t miss it – blue neon light down an alley.” 

“Thanks!” There was a glint in his eyes. Maybe I should have realized he was laughing. 

The bouncer outside the Blue Oyster Bar was decked out in mean-looking leather. He gave me one long incredulous look and ushered me in. By this stage, I was so embarrassed, and feeling so much like a fish out of water, that I headed straight for the only space at the bar, leaned nonchalantly on my elbows, and ignored all the other patrons. When the bartender (also in leather, with a fair few chains) attended me, all I could think of was a double bourbon. Courage… Dutch but necessary. 

Eventually, with the liquor warming my cheeks, I took a look around the bar, a hollow square arrangement with the bartender in the middle. All the faces appeared to be male, most wearing leather. I looked vaguely around behind me, wondering where the women were… I turned back to my bourbon and swallowed at least half of it, mind belatedly strolling to a few conclusions. 

I slowly became aware of a young man, around the corner of the bar from me, regarding me with amusement. He was dressed in cowboy gear – but as if he wore it all the time, unlike most of the patrons who appeared to be in costume. He had a friendly engaging face, so that his internal laughter could not be taken as even slightly offensive. Indeed, after another sip of bourbon, I even began returning his smile, chuckling to myself about my country-boy naivety. 

OK, I told myself, finish your drink and go home. It is obviously not your lucky night tonight.

But as I downed the rest of the bourbon, the barman presented me with another. “With the compliments of the guy in the hat down there.” He indicated the cowboy, who was carefully looking nonchalantly away. 

“Thank you,” I said, lifting the glass. The cowboy immediately looked back around, so I toasted him silently in thanks. He tipped his hat, the amused smile winsome. 

A few moments later he was leaning on the bar beside me, having wormed in by the next guy along. I, for one, wouldn’t have dared to try shifting that guy, but it seemed the cowboy had explained his mission with a wink and a nod, and room had been made. Just enough room for the cowboy to stand leaning sideways against the bar, far too close and intimate with that amused smile and his young, fresh looks. “Howdy,” he said, tipping his hat again. “How’re you doin’?” 

“Not too well, actually,” I said, which was a little rude, but he didn’t seem the type to easily take offence. Indeed, he laughed now, a pleasantly clear ring of a laugh. Heads turned. Then I realized that everyone’s eyes had been on each of us anyway since he’d ordered that drink for me. I blushed for the first time in _years_. 

“Come here often?” he muttered, chuckling at the absurdity of the line under the circumstances. 

“I didn’t know…” Could I plead temporary insanity? 

“You’re stating the obvious. Never mind! I have nobly marked you down as mine. If anyone here is gonna have their way with you tonight, it had much better be a nice guy like me, huh?” 

“So kind of you, but…”

“No buts! You never know, maybe all I want from you is a little intelligent conversation. You don’t think I usually get much of that in here, do you?” 

“Well, no… I understand that the patrons might come here with other priorities.” I looked across into his luminous green eyes. There was no way I could feel threatened by this happy, friendly man. Despite his large frame, his presence so immediately overwhelming, the easy thread of sensuality in his relaxed sprawl, I felt comfortable. And, I reflected, I had always managed to look after myself pretty well up until now. Not that I thought he’d resort to violence to press his claim. I didn’t realize that it might be a lot harder to fight if he simply used his charm. “Do _you_ come here often?” I asked him. 

“Only since I turned eighteen a short time ago,” he lied through his teeth, grinning all the while. “No, actually, it’s a good place to hang out. Like-minded people and all that. There’s not many bars where you can go and let your hair down and still feel normal compared to the rest of the dudes in the joint.” 

“Hmmm.” I took all this in, the bourbon having produced a rather mellow glow. “And what do you do when you’re not letting your hair down?”

“ _Daydream_ about letting my hair down.” He laughed out loud. 

I decided I liked his laugh. I just stood there, watching him, wanting to (but not letting myself) pry. It was a dilemma I often found myself in – the trouble with having equal doses of curiosity and a respect for any given person’s privacy. Luckily, he obliged me with a potted life history, which almost sounded too wonderful to be true. A qualified anthropologist (having just completed his degree at eighteen), he was interested and well-informed in many topics ranging from entomology to criminal psychology to music. And it was obvious from his self-confident, easy stance, that he kept himself more than fit. I began wondering if I’d finally been lucky enough to have found a kindred spirit. In turn, I gave him an account of my interests, and a few of my saner scientific moonbeams. 

Finally he asked, “So, what’s your name? Or… what can I call you?” His voice was low. The cowboy tilted his head back to swallow the last of his beer, and then he leant a little closer. 

“My name’s Buckaroo,” I found the voice to say, wishing he wasn’t so overwhelming in the sensuality department. 

“Really?” He laughed again, apparently believing me. Not everyone did at first. “Mine’s worse.” 

“Yes?” 

“Gabriel,” he told me. “Ma ran out of Peters and Matthews and Lukes – we were a big family! Plus, I was an unexpected late arrival. I’m just lucky she didn’t call me Jean-Baptiste, I suppose. But I’d rather have a name like Buckaroo. ‘Gabriel’ sits pretty odd on a cowboy like me.” 

“Not with your beautiful eyes and lovely face,” I found myself saying. Then I could feel my own face heating up, remembering where we were. Compliments on another man’s beauty might easily be misconstrued in such a place. 

“Even so,” he continued easily, ignoring my sudden discomfort, “rename me at your will. And _please_ don’t call me Gabriel around here. It’s not the easiest name to live with.” 

I couldn’t resist the first of his requests. I let my eyes wander over his well-built, large but economical body, leaning elegantly alongside mine. Whip-fast, eager, hungry yet relaxed. Tough yet precise. Power and poetry. “Rawhide,” I murmured. He gazed back at me, needing something. Either I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, read what that need was. “I’ll call you Rawhide.” 

“Yes,” he said firmly, gratefully. And then, gently: “When we’re alone I’ll call you Angel.” Voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. Something in me yearned to move a little closer to him, to let him draw me into his arms, and leave it all up to him to decide. 

Desperately, I changed the subject. The only other thing in my head right then was my dream of founding the Institute, an idea which had re-awoken at Rawhide’s description of his mad life and qualifications, a pipe-dream I hadn’t planned on confessing to him unless (or until) I got to know him far better.

But to my delight, he was fascinated, excited by my initially stumbling attempts to communicate the whole concept to him. “Jumping Geronimo! This is too wonderful to be true!” he exclaimed after he was sure of what I intended. “But please, _please_ come back to my place. We can’t possibly talk here.” 

“I could meet you tomorrow…” I prevaricated. 

“Sweet Lord, Buckaroo, you’ve got nothing to fear from me. And I’ll die if I don’t hear more.” 

At his soulful expression and extravagant words, I smiled. Watching his enthusiastic eighteen-year-old’s face, and feeling unassailable in my straight, sure, twenty-one-year-old’s body. Forgetting my innocence and his charm. 

So, we went to his place, and we talked for hours. I don’t know what time it was when he at last made his move. I was sitting properly, primly at one end of his sofa, tucked away in the corner between the high arm and back. My fears of his intentions had been forgotten in his enthralling enthusiasm for my ideas. And then at last, in a quiet lull, he murmured, “But you didn’t go to the Blue Oyster Bar for intelligent conversation, did you?” 

I immediately tensed, in contrast to his sprawling, beautiful frame at the other end of the couch. “I didn’t go there with the intention of picking up another man.” 

“What _were_ you looking for?” he asked, sitting up a little, leaning towards me. 

“Someone like me. Someone to share the night with.” He had edged a little closer. “I was lonely,” I explained. “I wanted some company.” 

“And some lovin’?” he asked. Closer, closer. I felt like a rabbit being stalked by a lion. 

“With a woman,” I tried. 

“But what’s the difference? I’m someone like you. I’m someone you can share the night with.” 

“Rawhide…”

He knelt next to me on the sofa now, so that I was trapped in the corner. “Angel…” he breathed. 

And I knew that I could get out of there if I wanted. I knew that if I tried to stand, he would let me. If I tried to leave… even if I wanted to spend the night alone on the sofa, he would let me. But he knew that I didn’t want to do any of those things. 

“I’m lonely, too,” he said, his seductiveness partly replaced by simple honesty. “I want some company, some lovin’. Is it so awful that we find that together?” 

“No,” I whispered.

“Sweet Angel, I won’t let you regret this,” he promised. 

“I would only regret it,” I replied, “if it meant we can’t work together.” 

“We’ll still be friends. Before anything, we’ll be friends. But tonight, Angel, we’ll be lovers.” And, slipping one hand under my long hair to shape against my nape, he leant to kiss me on the lips. 

And my world never _will_ be the same. In one fell swoop I have found a lover in a body of power and poetry, a brother full of love and faith, a colleague enthusiastic and innovatively intelligent, a kindred spirit with boundless generosity, youth and humor: Gabriel, my own Rawhide. I love you, I’m in love with you already. 

♦

### Sunday, December 26, 1971

Dear Buckaroo’s Journal, 

Typical – he left out the good bits! I bet you were simply dying to hear all about what happened next, but he turns coy on you. Like he expects Hikita-san to sneak in one day and read all the gruesome details. Probably hasn’t done that since Buckaroo was thirteen, and the Prof began worrying about how often the poor lad was guiltily masturbating. (Just think of jacking off as a physiology experiment, Buckaroo. It works for me.) 

He’s lying there now on his futon, sprawled beautifully naked amid the damp and crumpled sheets. Looking happy, sensual, so relaxed. And the glorious thing is that _I’ve_ done this to him. I never dreamed of meeting such a perfect man, of having him love me like I love him. He’s lying there, as I said, looking even a little smug. Like he’s just discovered what a good fuck can do for a person, and is about to delightedly tell the world (as if they don’t know already). Takes an Einstein or a Banzai, I suppose. 

Anyhow, I asked him, “Tell me how much you love me,” and he got a bit choked up. The end result being that he invited me to read the last entry, which is a little (only a little) more coherent. Isn’t he the sweetest, most naive and lovable person on the planet? And the sexiest. And the nicest to make love to. 

So, I bet you want me to continue that particular entry, huh? And then my Angel can read it and know how much I love him, and how much I live for getting him hot and bothered in my bed and on my kitchen table and his futon – and, all in good time, on his lab benches, and under that particular willow tree by the river (difficult but delightful if we try it now, standing in all our winter-coated splendor). Just as well it’s the Christmas holidays, that’s all I can say, otherwise it would be nose to the grindstone instead of lips to the… er… Can I talk dirty to you, dear Journal? Thanks. Anyhow, I can tell he’ll be a real tyrant once he reckons he can put me to work. Meanwhile, I lay it on with a shovel about how much Christmas means to me, and how deeply I feel about celebrating in an appropriately joyous manner.

As you’ll soon realize (during the inevitable post-Christmas work-blues time) right now I’m like a child with all his Christmases come at once. I’ve been such a serious, grown-up sort of person until now. My brother Pete would tell you – he’s thirty, and reckons I’m rather more mature than him. If he could read this! (No way, Jose, by the way. Don’t go fluttering your pages at him, or there’ll be Trouble.) 

In the meantime… back to our hot sex scene, yeah? Sorry to keep you waiting, but my tongue gets carried away whenever I think of Buckaroo. (Yes, you can read that as a double entendre, if you like.) 

He’s right – I had him cornered on that sofa, and I knew he wasn’t going anywhere without me firmly in tow. He had worked his way into my heart and my sex, without even realizing that he was feeling much the same way about me. (You should have seen his innocent face each time I tipped my hat at him. It drove him crazy.) From the first time I saw his beauty in that rough-and-tumble place, my heart was lost. I yearned, I burned. I played it cool, for fear of him skittering out the door like a frightened colt. (What a metaphor, think of those long, fine legs… Hmmm.) I made my moves, and found that every dream of mine was here embodied. (I don’t dream only of sex, you know! But, as he’s covered almost everything but the sex, I’ll happily concentrate on that.) I’d had no real fears of how he’d cope alone with the Blue Oyster crowd, but I was growing more ecstatic by the moment that I’d marked him mine, and rules are rules. No one else was gonna try and take him away from me that night. 

So I ended up with him cornered on my sofa, my fingers all tangled up in his long hair, finding the touch of the bare skin of his neck as intoxicating as I’d hoped for. I kissed him on the mouth gently at first. It was hard to remember to take it easy, and soon I didn’t have to. Hands shaking, he lifted his arms around me, and he wouldn’t let go, holding me so tightly to him that I felt, deliriously, we might meld into one. 

He returned my kisses, shuddering as I ran my hands firmly over his arms, chest, thighs. I knelt by him so I could keep him just where I wanted him. And my Angel was responding to me so hotly, so hungrily, that I forgot all about how politely, how carefully I should treat him. My tongue got very insistent about being in his mouth. My hands became persistent in searching out naked flesh. My lips burnt without his skin or mouth beneath them. 

“Hey, Rawhide,” he murmured as I ran kisses down his throat. “Hey, lover.” And Buckaroo tightened his arms around me, holding me still. I took a few deep breaths, meeting his blue eyes. It was his turn to look amused at me. “Don’t lose the beauty of it. Don’t get scared by how you feel.” 

“It’s not meant to be like this. It’s not meant to be so good.” 

“Isn’t it?” he asked lightly, almost laughing. “What should it be like, do you think?” 

“Not the first time, not any first time.” The way he made me feel, he could have been practicing on me the last thousand years. Maybe those songs about being made for each other were right after all. “Sweet Angel,” I breathed. 

“No, _you’re_ the angel,” he corrected. Gently, he turned me around in his arms so that I lay along the sofa, facing him and held close, chest to chest. “Gabriel, my archangel.” 

And he pulled me towards him to kiss me, his hands running over me now, our roles reversed. It was such a delight to be made love to by him, the blue-eyed innocent who had accidentally stumbled into very much the wrong place that evening, the man who had been wandering the snow-covered streets looking for love. 

Only I laughed as it became his turn to get rather carried away. Especially as it happened when he ran one hand firmly down to the waistband of my jeans, and then began exploring the forbidden territory beyond, cupping my cock through the worn denim in his fine hand. Before I realized quite what was going on, his hand on me was shaking provocatively, his other arm drawing me tight enough to hurt – trembling, breath ragged, eyes meeting mine, he climaxed there and then, still fully clothed. 

Buckaroo gathered me up in both arms, seeking reassurance in my embrace, planting kisses against my hair, still shaking in long reaction. It must have been a beauty. Despite my quickly growing awe for this man, I started chuckling. 

“Don’t,” he moaned, although obviously as amused as I was. 

“ _Don’t lose the beauty of it_ ,” I reminded him. 

“So how was I to know?” he complained good-naturedly, loosening his arms so that I could sit back and look at him. I liked what I saw. Those blue eyes sure had a 64-carat sparkle to them. The grin, all embarrassment and satisfaction and anticipation mixed up, was worth a hundred lonely years waiting, not just eighteen. “Sweet Gabriel. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“What we’d be like together? I hardly guessed myself. I’ve had as little experience at feeling like this as you.” 

“Really?” He smiled in disbelief. “You have no idea how inexperienced I am.” 

“I can guess – and I love you for it. And I get to reap the benefits now, huh?” 

“I thought, rather, I was reaping the benefits of all your past conquests.” 

“They don’t stack up to much compared to you,” I assured him. “Now, kiss me, you fool. Let me touch you, and maybe I’ll come, too!” 

“Gabriel,” he murmured, pulling me to him again. “Lord, yes, it was your masculinity…” Buckaroo kissed me as if just the thought of me being another man excited him. He began fumbling with my clothes, my belt buckle especially. “Please, Gabriel. Let me touch you.” 

“Sshhh, come on. Come to my bed, lover. Touch all of me.” He didn’t let me go, but we stumbled to my room together, via the light switches.

Things progressed from there. No, I’m not going coy on you. Detailing it all just gets a little mundane for the reader – not that experiencing it was mundane in the slightest. In fact, when I finally got all our clothes off, and both of us wrapped up together under my quilt, it didn’t take much more than the touch of his naked body along mine to set my first glorious orgasm off. Buckaroo, of course, thought it highly laughable (or may I say risible?) that I should react almost as precipitately as he had. He didn’t let me forget that for a long time. 

And we rolled around a lot, and laughed and hooted, and I kept falling deeper and deeper in love with him, and he came, and I came, and so on ad infinitum. By the time we figured we may as well get some sleep (if only in order to be able to do all this again) we needed a shower and a change of sheets. 

Rather than muck the sheets up again the following morning, he wandered into the kitchen as I was making the coffee, and attacked me there and then on the kitchen table. Well, that was the reason he gave me, anyhow. It seemed to make excellent sense at the time. 

And now here I am, in a most serious tone of voice you may note, writing it down – _Journal, I am so in love with this man_. He’s calling me now, wanting to know what’s taking me so long. “Bring the damn Journal with you if you must – just come back here.” 

Maybe he wants to discuss his plans for the Institute again, huh? Somehow, with his blue eyes sparkling, his smile sensual, his arms reaching out, I figure he’s got other things on his mind for once. The way he pats the bed beside him: an order, a plea, a statement. He wants me there beside him. Maybe forever. I reckon I can handle that just fine. 

♦

It is true that I have other things on my mind right now. Good night, Journal! Sweet dreams…

♦


End file.
